


Monkey's Paw

by phipiohsum475



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Better You, AU, Be Careful What You Wish For, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3835954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s not for everyone, Sherlock. It’s recommended for those with neurological or mental disorders, like autism, depression, anxiety, ADHD, bipolar disorders, and the like. It’s even supposed to help reduce some of the more severe schizophrenia symptoms. It’s not just to alter someone else’s personality to make them more suited for you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Darkest Before the Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Better You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/408440) by [daasgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl). 



> An AU created by [daasgrrl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl), who gave me permission to play.

John sighed and pulled a jar of small, reptilian-looking eyeballs from the microwave. The small beady pupils stared daggers at him accusingly. He groaned, held them up, and shouted into the sitting room, “Haven’t you already done this experiment?” It was the second night they met, John would never forget.

“Those were  _ human  _ eyes, John. Completely different.” Sherlock didn’t even look his way, engaged in the paper he’d snagged from Speedy’s.

“Of course they are,” John murmured. He put the eyes back in the microwave, gave up curry as a lunch option, and put the leftovers back in the fridge. He rooted around the drawers for lunch meat instead, but instead, found a bag of rat tails pressed up against the sliced cheese.

“Dammit, Sherlock! I need to eat! Why can’t I have any food in this godforsaken kitchen that isn’t contaminated by your relentless need to experiment?!” It was an old argument, and John knew that despite his protests, nothing would change. Sherlock would never change. But to express his displeasure gave him the satisfaction of not being a doormat, of speaking up for himself.

Sherlock didn’t answer and even John knew the question was, at least in Baker Street, rhetorical. He grabbed his wallet from the table and slammed the door behind him as he stormed out. At least he still had Sherlock’s bank card.

-o-

Sherlock pranced about the crime scene, spewing his obsessive observations as they bubbled over. From the angle of the blade and the cuts in the clothes of the victim he pinpointed the exact knife used within moments of arrival. John followed behind Sherlock, nodding at the officers as he ducked under the yellow tape and walked into the flat. The scene was not particularly grisly, but the victim had bled out from one precise wound, and the size of the puddle of blood soaking into the beige carpet was alarming.

In the corner, a man stood next to a paisley chaise lounge. He did not pace nor cry, and he looked as though he’d just been lectured by a superior.  As Lestrade briefed them on the case, he identified the sullen man as the victim’s girlfriend’s daughter; the man who’d found the body. While Sherlock hovered over the body, John examined the man from the corner of his eye. It was odd; rather than having the distraught, disheveled look of a witness who stumbled upon his daughter’s girlfriend, femoral artery slashed in a cloud of crimson, he looked like a harried businessman who’d missed his train. John was disturbed by the bloke’s undisturbed nature, and kept an eye on him as Sherlock finished his keen revelations and stood up, storing the pocket magnifying glass back in his coat.

“John!” Sherlock called, “Do you agree with Anderson’s time of death?”

John walked over, grateful for the opportunity to bring the man’s odd behavior to Sherlock’s attention, who, true to form, likely dismissed the unusual behavior as it might have been typical for himself. He knelt, looked over the body, double checked the liver temperature, and stood next to his flat mate.

“Looks about right, give or take an hour or so,” John agreed, then softened his voice, “That man in the corner, his reaction is all off. He should be more upset than this; showing signs of shock or distress. He’s either way too acclimatized to violence, or he’s not surprised to find her like this.”

Sherlock glanced up, and then bellowed, “Lestrade!”

The detective inspector hurried over and they huddled together. Sherlock lowered his voice, “John says the girlfriend’s father is behaving abnormally. I’m assuming you interviewed him?”

“Yeah, Mr. Huxley. He’s bloody weird, I tell you. Guess the bloke’s an ABY patient.”

“Abby?” Sherlock asked, trying to sort out where he’d heard that name before.

“ABY – A Better You,” John sighed with dawning realization, “It’s not even been approved in the UK yet.”

“Yeah, he had it done in the States.”

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaimed. “The ‘neuro-normalization’ process. ‘Plastic surgery for the mind,’” he said, parroting the media catchphrases from when the press releases first broke international news. “What’s it done to him?”

“Apparently he used to be pretty high strung, plenty of anxiety and panic attacks and the like, so he got a serious Tension reduction. Didn’t ask much more than that; figure I can’t trust the emotional reaction of anyone who’s turned the dial down to ‘placid’.”

“It’s a bit odd, yeah?” John asked, sneaking a look at the gentleman once more.

“It’s brilliant,” Sherlock announced, “Do away with as many pesky emotions as possible. Imagine Donovan, if she could tone down the Rule Consciousness and increase her Emotional Stability. Make for a much better Sergeant, could even make DI in just a few years that way.” 

Sherlock nodded in agreement with himself, then turned to the corpse at their feet, “Well, you’re still looking for a male, six foot, a good fifteen stone or so, in some sort of construction. There are traces of calcium silicate brick from the foyer to the victim, and since the father works at Tesco’s and the girlfriend at a call center, it’s not either of them.”

“Yeah, okay, that’s good. What else?”

“I’ve been on the case seven minutes, Lestrade. Give me two more minutes, and I’ll have everything you need to start doing your job.”

-o-

The girlfriend, a slight woman called Maggie, wouldn’t stop blubbering. Tears streamed down her face into the mucus that flowed just as freely. John found it uncomfortable just to witness the outpouring of emotion, but held steady nonetheless. Sally had already interviewed her, but Sherlock had sent John to ask specific questions the Yard hadn’t bothered to ask. He soldiered through, but he was only halfway the list.

“Now, did Julie do any gardening?” John asked, and Maggie wiped the soggy mess off her face with her sleeve. John held back his cringe, and waited for the broken, tearful response.

“Not really. She- She had- just a couple of-,” Maggie blew her nose like a trumpet into a tissue and John felt the overwhelming need to slather himself in antibacterial hand gel. He shifted back in his chair, and waited for the girl to continue. “A couple of herbs. Oregano. Ba-basil. That type of thing.”

John took his notes, and asked Sherlock’s next question. He’d long since gotten used to the non-sequiturs, but explaining them to victims could be burdensome. He apologized as he asked about the victim’s sexual history, which seemed to send the girlfriend into even messier hysterics. He finally tore himself away from the girlfriend, and found Sherlock in the morgue,  inspecting the body more closely. When he began to recount the responses, Sherlock stopped him short.

“At which question did she cry the most?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Really, John? It’s a simple enough observation; even you should be capable of determining which question upset her the most.”

John thought for a bit. “Well, I mean, she was quite… damp for most of it. But I guess the worst was when I asked about her girlfriend’s sexual history? It’s a weird question, maybe she felt hurt remembering the people who came before her?”

Sherlock sighed, “As usual, you’re distracted by the tears without understanding their cause. Don’t you see?”

John frowned. “See what? The victim was bisexual, what does that matter?”

“Everything matters. And if you’d been able to look past your own discomfort, you would have seen it.”

“I clearly noticed she was a sobbing wreck. What more do you want?!”

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal and lamented, “Nothing I can reasonably expect. I forget  some days that you’re just like the rest of them.”

-o-

“No,” John argued, “That can’t be right. That’s just, it’s just stupid. It makes no sense.”

“That’s the problem, when you assume people work on common sense. Distrust the lot of them, and see where the evidence leads you. I assure you, Lestrade will find my version of events to be correct.”

“So she hired a bloke to hit on her girlfriend to prove that because she liked men too, she was sure that her girlfriend was cheating on her?”

“Yes, and it’s a shame that she hired such an unsavory character for the job. A simple background check would have revealed his violent history.”

“Jesus,” John exclaimed, running a hand through his hair.

“If only the girlfriend had taken after her father. A bit more Openness to Change, and perhaps she would have been less likely to assume the worst of her bisexual girlfriend.”

“It’s not for everyone, Sherlock. It’s recommended for those with neurological or mental disorders, like autism, depression, anxiety, ADHD, bipolar disorders, and the like. It’s even supposed to help reduce some of the more severe schizophrenia symptoms. It’s not just to alter someone else’s personality to make them more suited for you.”

“Shame, that.” Sherlock muttered, and John rolled his eyes. He didn’t expect much more from Sherlock on the matter.

-o-

Sherlock looked up from his book to see seeing John walk in the door, soaked to the bone. His cardigan clung to his torso, his blond hair hung into his eyes, and he wiped the final drips of rain out of his eyes. 

“You had a brolly when you-,” Sherlock stopped face morphing into a look of vague disgust. “But you gave it to Molly. She forgot hers, and you did the noble thing, instead of the sensible thing.”

John argued that kindness and generosity weren’t poor qualities to have and headed to his bedroom to change, but three days later, as he lay drenched in sweat, fever burning through his body, he thought that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock had a point after all.

-o-

Since moving into Baker Street, six relationships had ended badly, and they were all John’s fault He’d tried too hard to be who they might want, who they needed him to be. A few years of living with Sherlock had shown him that the dating persona he liked to adopt was just that - it took hardly any time at all for Sherlock to waltz in and obliterate it. He’d yet to meet anyone aside from Sherlock, who could appreciate his dark humor, his skeptical nature, his desire to please and the hope that he wouldn’t have to do so.

More than once, he had wished that Sherlock were a viable option. But Sherlock made it clear he wasn’t after a relationship, and John didn’t want to risk their companionship for something that would probably wither and die.

Three weeks after the ABY process was approved for the UK, John read up on the materials. He ignored the mainstream media and delved straight into the medical literature. Study after study showed improvement not just in patients with mental and neurological disorders, but in patients whose perception of self didn’t match their personality. Typically, the samples came from people who wanted to be outgoing and couldn’t, or those who wanted to be less sensitive to the world around them; an obvious detriment of their civilization, that tears and emotion were vile and to be avoid at all cost. Just like Sherlock, John thought.

Each study analyzed quality of life, and nearly 90% of the participants chose not to have the procedure reversed. John rather suspected that the memory loss that came with the reversal might have a biasing factor, but a few studies, with albeit small sample sizes, suggested there was no relationship.

Several hours later, John took out his phone and punched in the number on the website.

It couldn’t hurt to have more information.


	2. Changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [HumsHappily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily) for the beta, even though she finds it "creepy."
> 
> Also, I'm using [The Sixteen Personality Factor Questionnaire](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/16PF_Questionnaire) (or 16PF), for the ABY Procedure. It's a "multiple-choice personality questionnaire which was developed over several decades of research by Raymond B. Cattell, Maurice Tatsuoka and Herbert Eber. The 16PF can be used as a clinical instrument to help diagnose mental disorders as well as being widely used in other areas of psychology."

The psychiatrist John met with the following week was a charismatic bloke by the name of Frances Gilmore, with dusty red hair and an American accent. In their first meeting, Dr. Gilmore greeted John with a firm handshake and a smile and before launching into an explanation of ABY, how it worked and its various side effects with the level of detail he saved for fellow physicians. He himself had the procedure two years ago, and John couldn’t help but find him witty and charming. Though John hadn’t known him before, he had a difficult time associating this man with the listless witness from the crime scene, and said as much to Dr. Gilmore. 

“When our patients attempt too strong a correction, you begin to see what lay people call the ‘zombie effect’. We call it overcorrection. Overcorrection was more of a risk in the early days of treatment, but we now have algorithms in place to reject any change too extreme, regardless of the patient’s wishes. Safety is our number one priority.” John could tell that Dr. Gilmore genuinely believed in the benefits of the process, but he wasn’t sure if he could quite trust the word of a man who had voluntarily readjusted his neurological processes.

“How do you decide what to adjust?” John asked.

“Think of the famous example of Phineas Gage, where brain damage led to vast differences in his personality. In fact, we’ve discovered over the years that brain damage, certain inflammations, viruses and parasites can and do affect personality. And while in the past, those effects were often unintentional and uncontrolled, those unfortunate accidents have provided medicine with the understanding to create a variety of chemical treatments based on the patient’s wishes. We’ve been able to pinpoint sixteen primary personality factors, fifteen of which we can influence. You’ll see on the pamphlet there-,” Dr. Gilmore gestured to the abundance of papers in John’s lap, “-that we can control Warmth, Reasoning, Emotional Stability, Dominance, Liveliness, Rule-Consciousness, Social Boldness, Sensitivity, Vigilance, Abstractedness, Privateness, Apprehension, Openness to Change, Self-Reliance, Perfectionism, and Tension.”

Dr. Gilmore rattled off the list with practiced ease, and John opened the pamphlet to read the entry on Tension, the factor that had been modified in the father of the victim at their recent crime scene. Low levels of Tension were affiliated with relaxation, placidness, tranquility, and patience, while high levels were related to tension, high energy, impatience and frustration.

John still couldn’t help feeling skeptical, “How exactly do you decide what to ‘fix’ in people based on these criteria?”

Gilmore smiled. “We begin by mapping your current levels of the fifteen variables. Then, with a psychiatrist, we discuss and examine what parts of your life, personality, dreams and aspirations are affected by each variable, and created a one-of-a-kind map to change only the traits you wish.”

“How can people possibly know what they want to be like without having experienced it?”

“Once the electrodes are implanted, they remain in the patient’s skull for up to a week while we monitor their progress with daily check-ins. If a patient’s responses are not what they hoped, we can make minor adjustments.”

After a few more questions, including questions regarding specific lobes of the brain and the method and circumstances involved in process reversal, John thanked Dr. Gilmore for his time, gathered his sheaf of medical literature, and left the clinic deep in thought. He was interested, sure, but wasn’t sure if he could seriously consider it. He imagined shifting his view on several points would make living with Sherlock easier, and that seemed ideal.

-o-

He only made it two blocks before a black Lincoln pulled up beside him. John groaned; he still hadn’t become entirely accustomed to Mycroft’s little visits, but he steeled himself and turned to glare at the car. The door opened, and a posh, languid voice drawled, “Get in the car, please, Dr. Watson.”

John rolled his eyes, and slid into the luxury vehicle, “If you’re going to kidnap me, do me the favor of taking me back to Baker St?”

“Certainly that was my intent. If we happen to have a civil chat on the way, what harm might it be?”

“With you?” John laughed, “Civil war in Monaco? Assassination of the British diplomat in Vanuatu? You tell me.”

Mycroft chuckled, “Such faith you and Sherlock hold in my power. One might find oneself overestimating one’s importance with such compliments.”

“Compliments? Not the word I’d use, yeah?” John shook his head. “Go on, then.”

“I couldn’t help noticing your appointment today.”

“The ABY clinic. I thought you’d approve. I’m quite sure Sherlock will.”

“Oh, I’m certain he will, and therein lies my concern.” Mycroft tapped his fingers on his knee with deliberation, frowning. “I suspect a great deal of your success in living with Sherlock lies in your personality, raw and unaltered.”

“So you think that so long as your brother drives me ‘round the bend, it’s best for him? I’d accuse you of being biased, but I imagine that is  _ obvious _ ,” John mocked. “No, I’m  _ considering - _ “ John pointed at Mycroft for emphasis, “This procedure because your brother, he, I mean-“

John faltered for a moment, and Mycroft tilted his head, one eyebrow arched.

“No. No. My sanity would be well served by being less bound to social constructs like organization, propriety, and social mores. Your brother would benefit without my incessant frustrations and ‘nagging’. How is any of that bad?”

“I would argue, but it’s quite clear to me you’ve made your decision. Do think wisely on it, though, John,” Mycroft cautioned ominously. John startled, but he realized Mycroft was right. Though he mentally cursed the man for knowing his own mind sooner than he had, John couldn’t help the relief that came with the revelation.

He wanted to do this.

The rest of the ride was silent until they reached Baker St.

-o-

“Sherlock, I don’t believe you are giving this issue the proper concern,” Mycroft implored, with an edge to his tone.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock dismissed with a flippant wave of his hand.

“How is this nonsense? John Watson is planning to undergo major brain surgery to make living with you easier. How many people have you known that tolerate you long term? Does it not occur to you that John’s personality, just as it is, is how he tolerates you? And how you tolerate him?”

“As usual, you are being dull. That John wishes to transform himself is his decision and nothing at all do with me. Honestly, it will be nice to live with a bit less nagging. And perhaps that blog of his will be less bloody romantic.”

“It’s more than that,” Mycroft warned as he stood, leaning on his umbrella, “I fear Dr. Watson is making a terrible mistake, and that you are allowing it to happen.”

“He’s a grown man, Mycroft, not a child! He can do as he pleases.”

“Oh, Sherlock, don’t be foolish. You and I both know that isn’t true.” Mycroft glared at Sherlock’s bent head.

Sherlock remained steadfastly engrossed in the chemistry journal in his hands and refused to meet Mycroft’s eyes. With a deep sigh, the elder Holmes left the flat.

There was only so much he could do, with both John and Sherlock refusing to listen to reason. He couldn’t, however, stop himself from dwelling on just how disastrous this course of action would be.

-o-

John knew it probably wasn’t entirely sane, to change one’s personality to suit one’s flatmate, but Sherlock was the best thing to happen to him in years. The Army was ideal for his needs, but there was something so much more satisfying about solving a case. John supposed it wasn’t fair, comparing the instant gratification of solving a case to attempting peace in the Middle East, but perhaps that was entirely his point. He spent less of his time trying to keep people from dying, and more of his time actually saving them. It was a nuanced trade, but a distinction he found important all the same.

He deliberated for a few more months, keeping his interest to himself, unknown to all but the Holmes brothers. Impossible to keep anything from those two, anyways. The hardest part of the whole process was not deciding how to manipulate his temperament, but rather deciding on his Reversal Contacts. Those precious few, who, should they decide that he was markedly worse off for having had the procedure, would be allowed to reverse it without  his consent.

The list of those he trusted was short. Sherlock would work in his own best interest, and John’s consideration and empathy were rarely in line with those selfish desires. Sherlock was off the list. Harry barely knew him anymore, not since she’d lost her own war with alcohol during his deployment, and both his parents were dead. He briefly considered Lestrade, but the DI thought he was crazy just for living with Sherlock, let alone changing his temperament to be even more tolerant of the man’s behavior; and Mycroft, well. Mycroft would toss him under a bus without a second thought if he believe it would aid Sherlock.

In the end, he had to sign three extra waivers, and when he was done he left the office with verification that the process would be permanent, save intervention from law enforcement. No one, not a soul on Earth aside from himself, would be allowed to change him back once he’d made his decision.

John felt more empowered, more in control, than he had in years. Finally, finally, he had a chance at freedom. Freedom from the ridiculous social obligations to which he’d so long been enslave, relief from frustration over Sherlock’s more outlandish behaviors, his entirety less dictated by strict, solemn British stoicism, and more by the actuality of his feeling and opinions. In the end, John wondered how he’d ever dismissed such an obvious benefit. Nothing but good could come from this. John was, for once in his life,  _ excited _ .

-o-

John took a week long holiday. Though he’d planned to take out a loan, John found the procedure procedure was paid for in full by an anonymous donor; John assumed it was Mycroft, but he couldn’t be sure. 

After the archival brain scan was taken, it was carefully checked through before a copy was taken for adjustments. This process took about a day, which would, simply vanish from his memory once the imprint took hold; neither personality, new nor old, would be able to retain a memory of it. The surgery was relatively simple, when all was said and done; upon waking, he was impressed by the limited damage to his shaved skull. The pain was minimal, aided, he was sure, by the morphine drip he was given the first few nights.

When he woke, he could feel the holes drilled into the his skull; there were three of them, each nearly the size of a pencil and large enough to allow needle-like implements to pinpoint the necessary regions of the brain and deliver the necessary chemicals and small electric shocks, to carefully and deliberately coax each region of John’s brain into order. John laid in bed for several days afterwards, testing his new found personality and finding it difficult without visitors. He’d explicitly told Sherlock not to come, partially because he didn’t need the useless derision of his new personality before he’d even begun to notice it, but also because he was quite certain that Sherlock wouldn’t come to visit him anyways. Deterring him with a lame excuse and expecting him not to visit was a far more reliable gamble than hoping he would.

As it turned out, it was Mycroft who visited him during his convalescence. John hadn’t bothered to inform Harry of the surgery; he wasn’t even sure if she’d notice he’d altered his brain chemistry. He’d address that if it ever came up. But Mycroft came, and they played poker, of all things, and Mycroft smiled, nodded, and despite his misgivings, he accepted John, as he was then and as he was now, and John enjoyed the company. He’d have to remember that in the months to come.

Before the procedure, John had been encouraged to write himself a letter to record any last-minute revelations to his new self.  Five days post-surgery, he opened the envelope. It was simple and straightforward, and read simply: “Don’t you dare cock it all up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more on Phineas Gage, check [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phineas_Gage) for more information.


	3. Time May Change Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Simply_Isn't_On](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Simply_Isnt_On) for the amazing and wonderful beta!

John was right; Sherlock didn’t bother to come to the clinic, but he did manage three texts, two of which were reminders to buy milk, and the third was the address to a crime scene. John, despite his having prepared, even instructed Sherlock to not visit, still felt the slight sting of disappointment from his absence, but it was far weaker than he expected. He found he missed the dialogue, the description of crime scenes and assisting in cases far more than he missed Sherlock’s actual presence. He missed feeling useful.

Mycroft had sent a car to fetch him when it was time; and John was content to be back in the walls of Baker Street. Hungry, he attempted to make a quiet meal, and found that not only had Sherlock not bothered to get the milk he’d been texting about for the last four days, but he’d also put a bag of poisonous mushrooms next to the beef, and John wasn’t willing to take the chance. John groaned, frustrated, but instead yelling at Sherlock, he shook it off and continued his search for an undisturbed food source.

John tossed the mushrooms in the trash without a word. His protests weren’t worth the effort; Sherlock would never learn, never adjust, never comply; to complain was worthless. So he tossed the mushrooms, as well as several other unsavory experiments, and left to fetch more groceries from the local Tesco.

Halfway to the store, epiphany hit. This was a useless cycle; the old adage of the definition of insanity rang in his ears. Doing the same thing over and over, expecting Sherlock to behave any differently; to conform, to see his own brand of logic? He had better ideas. He arrived home empty handed, but with a satisfied expression, and Sherlock, finally available once he’d returned from wherever he’d been lurking, eyed his empty hands suspiciously. “You are no longer concerned about my storage habits. You’ve adjusted. In fact, you are so complacent, you’ve made arrangements.”

John smiled, nodding as Sherlock’s stare bored into him, exposing him, “You feel like you’ve found a solution.” Sherlock’s glare widened as the doorbell rang. John smirked and jogged back down the stairs. Within seconds, he was back, guiding a delivery woman up to his bedroom. The doorbell rang again, and John rushed down, returning to lead a bloke carrying several sacks of groceries into the flat.

John glanced at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow. “A second refrigerator? Is that really necessary?”

“Yeah, I think is, Sherlock. I’m done being poisoned.”

“And in your bedroom?”

“I figure that most of the time, you’ll be too lazy to trudge up the stairs to sully it.”

“Most times?”

“I’ve given up on the hope you won’t deliberately try to annoy me. Best to expect it.”

Sherlock jumped up and found a small navy notebook John didn’t recognize. He pulled out a pen and began to mutter as he scribbled, “More rational; less frugal. Finances may suffer.”

John offered a cocky smile and wink, “No worries. I put it all on Mycroft’s card.”

-o-

John found Sherlock considerably more tolerable in the weeks to come. Whether Sherlock was experimenting with him, or simply being himself, John wasn’t sure, but either way, the genius’ behavior rarely bothered him anymore. He was, however, finding work more intolerable.

He returned to work two weeks after the procedure. His hair had grown back enough to cover the scars, though he wasn’t sure he was fond of the overly shaven look. His irritation at his hair paled in comparison to the irritation at his patients. After the twelfth cold he saw on Thursday, he’d never hoped more whole heartedly for something terrifying and infectious. He’d welcome a patient with TB or  HIV or even small pox if it would give him something more bloody interesting.

“I’ve been sick for three weeks,” the woman complained, “And I’m completely exhausted.”

John tried not to glare at the women, and asked with resignation, “And when was the last time you menstruated?”

“I’m NOT pregnant,” the woman cried out vehemently, “I’m sick!”

“Of course,” John rolled his eyes, “Your breasts have grown, you’re experiencing sickness in the morning, you’ve gained weight, feel bloated, and it’s completely unrelated to the unprotected sex you’ve been having.”

The woman looked scandalized, “How DARE you!” she exclaimed, sliding off the exam table, and John watched as she hobbled out of the exam room.

Within a few moments, Sarah poked her head in, “What was that all about?” she inquired.

“She wasn’t thrilled to find out she’s up the duff,” John said blandly, but Sarah kept on.

“She said you didn’t even run a test!”

“There wasn’t any need to,” John muttered irritably, and shoved the chart Sarah’s way, “It’s practically textbook.”

Sarah took the chart, flipped through it, and sighed, “I know, John. But I can’t have you upsetting the patients like that.”

“Yeah, ‘course. Sorry about that,” John apologized, though he didn’t feel sorry in the slightest.

“Why don’t you take an early lunch? Clear your head?” Sarah offered, but John could see it for the order it was.

He stood, grabbing his keys and wallet, and left.

-o-

Half an hour later, John sat at the bar of his favorite pub, having ordered his lunch, though with a cup of tea in lieu of a beer given it was just midday. He had been pleased that his taste buds were still the same as they’d always been, although he supposed if he had new favorites, he wouldn’t be bothered. He indulged himself, thinking on the change that caused him to berate his patient. While he knew, logically, that his old self would have been far more patient with the women, he wasn’t entirely sure why.

Why should stupidity be placated, rewarded, and coddled? Shouldn’t the evolutionary goal of all mankind be to improve intelligence, further brilliance, and encourage the brightest and cleverest? His old tendency to adhere to social niceties made little sense to him anymore. John chuckled; Sherlock’s rants made more sense than ever. He was pleased; this is exactly what he’d hoped. The disparity between his and Sherlock’s personalities dissipated, making their cohabitation even easier.

His phone vibrated in his pocket; a text from Sherlock, directing him to a crime scene. John smiled. He texted Foley, the new doctor who always took his shifts. When she confirmed she’d take his afternoon appointments, he texted Sarah to inform her of the change, swallowed the last of his sandwich, and headed for the tube.

-o-

Fifteen minutes later, he spotted the crime scene tape on the third floor balcony and Lestrade’s car in the lot. He found Sherlock berating Anderson, and smirked to himself. He’d always found Anderson an incompetent arse and he was happy to be able to admit that to himself, no longer bound as he had been by a useless inclination to show deference to idiots. He stood off to the side and watched Sherlock tear ruthlessly into Anderson, who clung to his theories and convictions with the desperation of a drowning man.

John watched Sherlock with a small smile, and then looked around the crime scene. Lestrade caught his eye, and quirked an eyebrow:  _ Was John going to stop this tirade _ _?_ But John just shrugged and Lestrade’s face fell in concern. John frowned; why was it his job to police Sherlock? Lestrade had known the posh git for far longer than John ever had. He and his team should be used to the this by now; John was sick of running interference.

Sherlock tired quickly, and he ordered Anderson and the other forensic staff to clear the room. John left with Lestrade, who turned to him once they vacated.

“Why didn’t you say anything, John?” Lestrade demanded, “You know you’re the only one he listens to.”

“Jesus, Greg, Anderson’s a grown man! If he can’t handle having his own stupidity pointed out to him, how is he ever supposed to learn?” John snapped with an inpatient wave of his arm.

Lestrade’s mouth snapped shut, his brow furrowed, and while he hadn’t said anything about it, John could feel the disapproval radiating from him. John hadn’t told anyone at the Yard about his plans to undergo the ABY procedure; as far as they knew, he had gone to a medical conference and returned with a shaved head. John found it interesting, in a detached sort of way, to observe how his acquaintances acted. Lestrade’s silent criticism bothered him now far less than it might have even three weeks ago. It was almost freeing, not being bound by the arbitrary judgements of other people. John smiled. Over his shoulder where he couldn’t see, Lestrade’s frown deepened.

Sherlock stormed over moments later. “It’s poison, I’m sure of it. No signs of trauma or shock to the body; honestly he looks completely healthy aside from the fact he’s dead,” Sherlock announced. He rattled off his other observations, and Lestrade rolled his eyes.

“Thanks all the same Sherlock, but I’ll wait for the tox screen, yeah?”

“It is definitely poison. This man is a entrepreneur. Giving money left and right to ventures that are constantly failing? The motives and suspects are nearly endless! Finally, something interesting!” Sherlock declared, striding off the scene, towards the road, “John! Are you coming?”

John looked at Greg, shrugged, and followed his flatmate.

-o-

Two days later, Sherlock was tugging at his own hair in Baker Street, grousing over Molly’s autopsy report.

“She finally confirmed that there is no natural cause of death, but no poisons in the system that are assessed by a typical tox screen.  _ Apparently _ ,  the victim just died. From nothing at all.”

John nodded, “How long does an atypical tox screen take?”

“That’s the problem. I have no idea which poison could have killed our victim, so I can’t get an atypical tox to prove that’s what killed him.”

“And without knowing what he was poisoned with, you can’t possibly know the suspect,” John muttered in a disinterested tone.

Sherlock whipped his head around, “Exactly!” He paused, then frowned at John’s apparent apathy. “You seem… disengaged. Is this a side effect of the procedure?”

John opened the daily newspaper with a aggressive snap, but kept his voice at an even keel, “Does it matter?”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, “I suppose not.” He darted to the corner  of the sitting room and pulled out the journal John saw earlier, and scribbled something down.

He looked up from the journal, and asked, with a look John didn’t care to decipher, “I’m going back to the crime scene. I’m certain Anderson missed something. Coming?”

John sighed, and folded the paper up again, giving it up as a lost cause. “Breaking and entering, I’m assuming?”

“Lestrade wouldn’t give me the key, no. So, yes.”

“Fine. But I’m meeting the blokes at the pub at eight, so we’d better be quick. I’ll leave you there if you dawdle, ” John stood, stretched lazily and fetched his coat.

Sherlock wrote a few more notes, snapped the book shut and stuffed it into the overly large pockets of the Belstaff as he strode out.

-o-

The victim’s flat still had a cross of yellow tape over the door but the crowd of curious neighbors had dissipated in the past few hours. Still, to avoid attracting attention, Sherlock opted to enter via the fire escape, clambering up onto the metal framework with ridiculous grace. After giving him a leg up, John headed back around the front to wait for Sherlock to unlock the front door. 

“You take the loo. Check the medicine cabinet,” Sherlock ordered.

“Anything in a medicine cabinet would show on a tox screen,” John retorted mildly.

Sherlock gave him a scathing glare. “And as a doctor, you should be able to discern the difference between the medications meant to be in the bottles, and whether or not they’ve been altered in any way. Do you think you can handle that,  _ Doctor _ ?”

“Oh, sod off,” John muttered, but he turned towards the bathroom anyways.

He could hear Sherlock start slamming through the cupboards in the kitchen and rolled his eyes. In the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, the victim kept a well stocked first aid, along with at least a half dozen cold remedies and a slew of homeopathics under the sink. John sighed, irritated at the sheer number of bottles, and was just reaching for a bottle of NightNurse when something else caught his eye.

Just as he reached for the suspect inhaler, he heard a crash from the living room, and a soft groan calling out his name. He rolled his eyes and went into the main room to find Sherlock collapsed on the ground.

“What the hell?!” John exclaimed, rushing to Sherlock’s side. The man was pale and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his hands were shaking, and he blinked rapidly.

“Wh-what happened?” Sherlock asked, “I… it’s … where am I?”

John grabbed his wrist, felt his pulse, and sighed, “Christ, Sherlock, when’s the last time you ate?”

Sherlock sat up, then muttered, “I’m… hungry?”

“Hypoglycemia, Sherlock. Low blood sugar. You haven’t eaten in what? Three days? Since the case started, no?”

Sherlock tried to stand, but stumbled, “I… I don’t want. To. Have you any crisps?”

“Jesus,” John moaned, going for his phone. He pressed 2 on the speed dial.

“How can I help you?” Mycroft asked, picking up after only the second ring.

“I need two bags IV dextrose and a car. He’ll refuse A&E, but I’ll get him set up. I trust you know where we are,” John barked into the phone. He snapped it shut and checked the time, muttered expletives.

Within six minutes, two women arrived, one with the requested IV and the other driving a non-descript vehicle. John and Sherlock had already made their way, slow and fumbling, to the ground floor. John momentarily admired Mycroft’s discretion, given they had been illegally poking around a crime scene, but brushed it aside when the blonde woman handed him the IV fluids. Sherlock was already draped, near lethargic, inside the car. John quickly, inserted the needle into Sherlock’s vein with the precision of someone with far too much experience, hung the bag, and smiled at one of Mycroft’s assistants.

“He’ll be fine,” John nodded “Just bring him back to Baker Street, yeah?”

“Aren’t you coming?” the brunette driver asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

“I’ve got plans, luv.” John smirked. “He’ll be fine. Just put him to bed, he’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Yes, sir, Dr. Watson,” she replied.

John turned to Sherlock, “You’ll live, you daft git. Eat some bloody breakfast tomorrow.” He climbed out of the car, closed the door and waved Mycroft’s people down the street. He glanced at his watch and groaned - five minutes to eight and here he was all the way across town. Even with a cab he’d be late.

_ Bloody Sherlock. _

 


	4. Bad Form

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Simply Isn't On](http://http://archiveofourown.org/users/Simply_Isnt_On) for the beta!

He made it to the pub at quarter past by offering the cabbie an extra incentive. He walked in to the sound of four of his old comrades shouting their greeting across the murmur of the pub’s other patrons. A fifth man seated with them stayed silent, but looked his way with interest. This bloke was vaguely familiar because he was, John supposed, another army man whose path he’d crossed once or twice, but he’d never spoken to the bloke. John went to the bar to order a beer, then joined his friends, offering his card to start a tab when the waiter brought his drink.

He greeted his mates happily: Neil and Matthew, two men whose lives he’d saved, and Bill Murray, the one who’d saved his. The fourth was a steady man, a soldier called Simon, who’d been lucky enough to make it out without injury. John tipped his drink to Murray, as was his custom, and they took a long gulp.

Simon introduced his friend, Sebastian, who’d been a sniper. John nodded; he’d remembered hearing little bits and pieces about Colonel Moran.

“John Watson,” he introduced himself. “Heard you were a hell of a shot.”

Moran gave a faint smile in acknowledgement, “Just doing my job.”

After a brief silence, Neil continued on with the conversation John interrupted by his arrival, “So, I was just saying, my youngest just got his third bloody ASBO. Thinks he’s a punk; decided to vandalize some library. His mum called me to go to the hearing; says she can’t handle him anymore and wants him to come live with me.”

John sat, quiet but contemplative. Over the next hour the conversation topics moved from  kids to wives, stock markets and mortgages, royalty and politicians. It bored John terribly. He worked his way through two pints of imperial IPA while straining to find something, _anything,_ interesting in the conversation, but it was not to be. The blokes had never been just this before, so very dull, though John knew the topics were the same as ever.

Finally, he sighed, “You know, out there, I used to dream about this. Back in London, at the pub with the blokes, just normal people talking about normal shit, and… Christ, I was a fucking idiot. I just, I’m sorry, I have nothing to add to this conversation. I’ve nothing in common with you all, not anymore. You’ll have to excuse me, but I’m off.”

His friends looked surprised, but Moran smirked.

John stood and shrugged his jacket on, “If you ever want to talk about crime, geniuses with sociopathic tendencies, and bizarre experiments, give me a call.”

Murray was the only one to speak, and he gave a hearty laugh, “Yeah, guess you didn’t quite follow the typical path. I read your blog, I should’ve know better! Maybe we can meet up in a few to talk cases?”

John nodded, grateful for Murray’s understanding, “Yeah, that’d be good. Ring me sometime.”

He paid the tab and left. As he caught the tube back to the flat, John felt relieved. He’d been able to beg off the whole awkward routine; pretending to understand the normal lives of normal men, when he was nothing of the sort. It had been a nasty reminder of how, despite his desperate attempts, John had never really been normal to begin with, and finally John could say with certainty that he was glad to be rid of it.

-o-

He walked through the door of his flat to find Mycroft, jacket carefully hung on the hook, making a sandwich in the kitchen. “Good evening, John.” He didn’t turn around.

“Mycroft,” John acknowledged, putting his jacket on the hook next to Mycroft’s.

“You are home far earlier than expected,” Mycroft began, turning to examine John, “but you’ve finally realized that you have very little in common with them, haven’t you?”

John huffed a small laugh, “Of course you knew. And you, hankering for a bite?” John gestured to the sandwich as Mycroft plated it.

“No, this is for Sherlock. He’ll wake in a bit, hungry as a horse, and he’ll want something. Tell me, John, how are you managing with the refrigerator in its current state? Empty save a few unsavory items?”

“It was an old argument between Sherlock and I, the experiments he keeps in the fridge. I decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, so I keep some stuff in a spare upstairs.”

Mycroft nodded and John knew he had already known as such, “When is the last time Sherlock ate?”

John shrugged, “Dunno. We’ve been on the case a few days. Your cameras see more than I do, I’m sure.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Mycroft continued, attempting to lead John to a revelation, “And why is this the first time this has happened since you’ve lived here?”

“What, you think that because I have a fridge upstairs with untainted food, that I’ve somehow prevented Sherlock from eating? He’s a grown man, he’s lasted thirty some years without me. I think he’ll be fine.”

“He will be fine, I’m certain of it. The difference is that before, you encouraged him to take care of his ‘transport.’ And before you, I did. I respect that you underwent this procedure to make living with my brother easier, but as I feared, that change has also tempered your more nurturing instincts. I can no longer count on you to care for Sherlock, and as a result, I expect you will be seeing a lot more of me.” Mycroft paused to judge John’s reaction.

John rubbed his face with a palm, and looked resigned. “Yeah, okay. Are you really going to do this? Enable him like this?”

“I fear I must. The last time I failed to care for him weighs far too heavily on my mind. He may not be lucky enough to survive that again.”

“The drugs?” John confirmed.

Mycroft answered with a nod which served to politely ended the conversation, “Now, if you will excuse me.” He carried the sandwich and a tall glass of water down the hall to Sherlock’s room.

Feeling tired, John headed up the steps, ready to turn in the for the night.

-o-

Sherlock woke before John, refreshed by his impromptu nap. The color had returned to his cheeks, and he dashed about the flat with agitated energy, fidgeting while he waited for John to wake

Unfortunately for the detective, it was another hour and a half before the doctor woke. He watched impatiently as the doctor brewed himself a mug of tea, humming as he ignored his antsy flatmate in favor of fetching the newspaper. After tea, John took a seat in his chair and waited for Sherlock to settle down.

Sherlock finally rounded on John and snapped, “Did you bother to find anything useful before you ran off and summoned Mycroft?”

John’s first instinct was to retort that Mycroft’s meddling had clearly down some good, but then he remembered what he’d been doing when Sherlock collapsed. He jumped up, gave a quick “Yes, in fact,” and dashed back upstairs.

When he came back down, he took his time, letting Sherlock wait, listening to his inpatient pacing on the wood floors of the living room. John came into view and Sherlock couldn’t hold it in.

“What, John, what did you find?”

John pulled out an inhaler from behind his back and tossed it to Sherlock, “It’s a fake.”

Sherlock turned it in his hands, examining it carefully with a frown, “How do you know?”

“Because albuterol, sold by any pharmacy, doesn’t come in a purple canister. The canister must be something else. I’d not inhale it; but it might do some good to analyze it.”

Sherlock looked quizzically from the inhaler in his hand to John, and back again, “Did you… steal this from the crime scene?”

“You’d passed out; I was in a hurry. I knew it was off, so I shoved it in my pocket. Forgot about it till you asked.”

“John! This could be it! This could solve the case!” Sherlock bounced about the room, then looked up to meet John’s eye, “Well done, doctor. Accompany me to Bart’s?”

John huffed with a smirk, “Always.”

-o-

Molly never seemed surprised to see them; on the contrary, her longing looks in Sherlock’s direction were hard to miss. She was a sweet girl, but John, even before ABY, had never been able to understand how incapable she was of moving on. She deserved much better than Sherlock, someone who could appreciate her thoughtfulness, her intelligence; more than once, John wished that Lestrade would give up on his philanderous wife, and take Molly for a night out instead.

Today, he and Sherlock arrived just as Molly was beginning an autopsy on an older man. He let Sherlock begin his analysis on the gaseous compound in the canister across the room, and walked over the check on the body Molly was examining.

“Why bother with an autopsy?” John teased, looking at the patient’s chart, “Seems pretty obvious the uncontrolled diabetes was the cause here.” John poked the large man’s belly and watched his internal organs shake.

Molly looked at him, eyes sharp, “Well, yes, but the family would like confirmation. They’ve threatened to sue.”

John laughed, “Sue? Really? The man’s feet are riddled with diabetic ulcers, he’s four stone overweight, and his hemoglobin A1C is 13.6. What the hell do they think Bart’s did that this bloke didn’t do to himself?”

Molly frowned. “Regardless, he deserves respect.”

John caught the disapproval, and softened his jovial tone; upsetting Molly would put a damper on their investigation. “Right. I’d not say anything of the sort to his family, I assure you.” He lightened his voice, “But between us, we know this is ridiculous, yeah?”

Molly sighed and set down her scalpel. “Perhaps, but I’d hate for my assumptions to cause me to miss something relevant.” She raised an eyebrow pointedly, daring him to go on.

John acquiesced, “Yeah, okay. Too easy to make snap judgments, even when it’s textbook, yeah?” He still thought the man’s condition was stupidly obvious, but it was clear he’d rubbed Molly the wrong way, and he didn’t want to push their luck before Sherlock had a chance to analyze the mysterious gas.

“I’ll just go check on Sherlock, shall I?” John said after a moment of awkward silence. It wasn’t a question.

Molly nodded, her face still sullen, “That would be best, yes.”

-o-

They caught up with Lestrade, who was attempting to eat his lunch in peace at a small cafe down the block from the Yard. Sherlock thrust the inhaler in Lestrade’s face with a triumphant look. “This! This is your poison; aerosolized aspirin. There was no aspirin in his cabinets, only paracetamol, and I’m sure if you check his medical records, you fill find he had aspirin-sensitive asthma. Wouldn’t show up on an autopsy. It’s rather clever, using a slow acting aerosol to trigger his fatal asthma attack. A sure death for a man with uncontrolled asthma attacks who relied regularly on his rescue inhaler.”

“Where’d you get this, then?” Lestrade asked, though he clearly knew the answer.

Sherlock ignored the question, and began to think aloud, “So the physician prescribed the asthma medication and a pharmacy tech filled it two weeks ago. If someone had just snuck into his home and replaced the canister after he’d filled the prescription, the victim would have noticed it’s color change. So the pharmacy technician must have given him the tainted canister. It might be the tech, the pharmacist, or even someone who bribed the tech. Either way, that’s our next stop.”

“No, Sherlock,” Lestrade reprimanded, “That’s _our_ next stop. I’ll call you if we need help.”

Sherlock huffed, disgruntled by the snub, and John rolled his eyes. He tugged on Sherlock’s coat and nodded his head towards the exit. John addressed Lestrade, “I’ll take Himself back to Baker street and out of your hair.”

He pulled Sherlock away, who regarded him with suspicion, but kept silent until they’d left the building.

“You lied to Lestrade,” Sherlock accused.

“I did.”

“So where are we headed?”

John rattled off an address just ten minutes away by cab, and smirked, “We’ve got a good thirty minutes before Lestrade shows up.”


	5. Turning of the Tides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is officially unbeta'd. My beta just started their freshman year of college, and they are super busy. If you like the fic, and think you might have time, let me know! I'd love another beta for this fic!

They entered the pharmacy, going directly to the counter. Sherlock took one thorough look at the technician, a tall, lanky bleach blond, and asked pointedly, since they had little time, “So whom are you protecting? You’ve attempted to kill a man, but it’s not your doing.”

The young man blanched, eyes wide with fear and fumbled the pills he had in his hands. He tried to speak, but the words escaped him, and Sherlock pressed hard, “You tried to kill him. Why? We don’t have long!”

The man panicked, threw the pill bottle at Sherlock, and ran out the back door. Sherlock jumped the counter, following closely behind, pursuing the man out the employee entrance and into the alley. John darted out the front door, and turned to the short, dead-end alleyway with plans to corner the whelp.

Instead, as he turned into the alley, he stopped cold at the sight. The young man had Sherlock on his knees, hand yanking his head back by his curls, with a knife pressed to his throat. John kept an eye on the technician, as he surveyed the scene, adrenaline controlling his focus and composure. John could tell that Sherlock had been struck; he was sporting a growing knot on his forehead and large chuck of wood from a broken pallet lay near his feet. The blade held against his neck was sharp; though it was barely biting into Sherlock’s skin, a thin line of blood was visible, and John watched as a drop slowly rolled down Sherlock’s neck. He looked at Sherlock, who was obviously put out that he’d be bested, but he still gave John a meaningful stare. They’d done this enough that John instantly understood.

John locked eyes with the man, and gave a small, dangerous smile, “You sure you want to be doing that, mate? Scotland Yard’s on their way. And I don’t think you can run away from all of us.”

“I’m not your fucking mate!” the man screamed, “You don’t understand, it don’t fucking matter! If I end up in jail, they’ll kill me before I even reach a bloody trial! As it is, I’m good as bleedin’ dead if they find out you was sniffing around!”

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide with interest. John didn’t care; he just needed the bloke away from Sherlock. He needed to neutralize the threat. He reached behind him for his gun.

“Oi! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

John slowly pulled out his hands, revealing the weapon. The man flinched, and he pressed more deeply in Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock hissed as a few more droplets of blood dripped down to the hollow of his neck.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” John warned, “I’ll set it down.” He held his hands far apart, keeping the gun aimed upwards, not wanting to alarm the technician. He knelt slowly, and started to lower his hands, as though he were placing the gun on the ground. He kept a close eye on the man, and saw him relax a bit as John lowered himself. The gun held at a steady height as he knelt, but the suspect didn’t seem to notice. Finally his knees hit the ground, the gun aimed well in front of him. In less than a second, John aimed, and fired.

A burst of blood spattered as the bullet exited the man’s dominant arm, holding the knife. He dropped it as he screamed, and Sherlock elbowed him the groin, doubling him over. The man dropped to the ground, howling in pain, holding his arm tightly, curled in the fetal position. He shook into the pains wracking his body. Sherlock ducked and rolled away, jumping and dashing to John’s side. John walked up the man, honestly not much older than a boy, and knelt down beside him.

“I’m going to undo your belt, and wrap it around your bicep. It’ll act as a tourniquet, keep you from bleeding out till the Yard shows up. What’s your name?”

“Fuck! You wanker, can’t believe you fucking shot me! How the fuck do I know you won’t take off me fucking arm?”

“I’m a doctor,” John answered, fumbling at the suspect’s belt, “And you won’t live if you don’t let me cut off the blood flow. And your name?”

“Danny, it’s fucking Danny! Don’t let me fucking die, you tit!”

John applied the belt, cutting off flow, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch. He opened it up, fishing out a few pills. “Oxycodone, for the pain?” he asked.

“Christ, yes!” Danny groaned.

John gave the boy the pills, and Sherlock appear within moments with a cup of water. Danny gulped the pills down, and slumped against John. John manipulated him to the closest wall, eager to rid himself of the boy. He heard sirens in the background, and knew Lestrade would be close by.

-o-

“John, I can’t,” Lestrade started, “I can’t overlook this. I mean, get Sherlock’s brother to wave his magic or something, because right now, I’ve to take you in. Between the handgun and that bloke’s shattered humorous, I’ve no choice.”

John nodded, “I understand. Are the cuffs necessary, or can I just ride in the back of your car?”

“Cuffs are protocol, yeah?” Lestrade look chastised, but still pulled the cuffs from his belt, “Nothing personal.”

John held his hands behind his back, and let Lestrade cuff him without resistance. Lestrade helped him into the back seat, and got into the front, besides Donovan in the passenger seat. She looked back at him.

“Told you. He’s nothing but trouble. Look what he’s turned _you_ into.”

John looked out the window, refusing to be goaded by someone he found so petty.

Lestrade booked him, with another half dozen apologies, and led him to a private cell. “I’ll call Mycroft, sort all this out.”

John nodded and settled himself on the bench. Now was as good of time as any for a nap.

He slept peacefully for a while, and was awakened by the sound of a the key in the cell door lock. He bolted upright and the cell door opened. A officer he didn’t know peeked in, “Watson?”

“Yes?” John stood.

“You’ve made bail. Come on.”

John nodded. He was likely indebted to Mycroft, with which Sherlock would be most displeased. However, to his surprise, it wasn’t Mycroft, not even Sherlock who met him upon his release, but Sebastian Moran.

“Moran?” John questioned, not sure how to ask why the hell Sebastian was bailing him out, without sounding terribly rude.

“Watson.” Sebastian said, without explanation, and turned, walking out the door.

John followed. Wordlessly, Moran led them to a nearby pub.

“Fancy a drink, Doctor?” Sebastian asked, right before they entered.

“God, yes.” John deadpanned, eager to rid himself of the cell block feel. Once they’d ordered and sat down, John studied him. “I can’t figure it out. Why me? I mean, plenty of blokes go to jail every day. Why’d you bail _me_ out?”

Moran pondered this for a moment. Finally, he spoke, “My employer is interested in the work you do. Both the physician and the soldier.”

“Employer?” John questioned.

“A contractor of sorts. He liked to dabble in risky deals, so I often serve as bodyguard in the more complex trades. You might like it; keeps you busy, on your toes. A bit like the battlefield itself, really. Your clinic work must bore you to death.”

“Christ, yes,” John bemoaned, taking a big swig of his drink, “But how would be the pet doctor for some rich bloke be any different?”

“You wouldn’t just be his doctor, you’d be doctor for his whole staff. It’s a high risk venture, lots of accidents.”

“And the NHS just isn’t cutting it?”

“They ask too many questions,” Moran looked pointedly at John.

John understood. He’d known quite a few soldiers who, adrift in the civilian world, had taken up with less than reputable employers. The drudgery of office work or retail made no sense, confused them, could even aggravate mental conditions. The rigid work of contracted body guards, weapons security felt a better fit. Hell, even John’d found his own release, the lackey of a law-defying consulting detective. The danger was rampant and familiar, and John thought nothing sounded better. But it didn’t pay the bills, and relied too often on handouts from Lestrade. To replace the drudgery of clinic work for something a bit more dangerous; well, John was intrigued.

“I’m not interested in anything beyond medically relevant history, myself,” John answered carefully.

“Good man,” Sebastian nodded, tipping his head. He fished into his pockets, pulled out a card, and slid it in John’s direction. “Think on it, Watson. We need a good doctor, a trauma doc. Someone who can keep his mouth shut and his head down.” He finished the last of his pint and stood up.

“It’s a commitment, though,” he warned. “There is no trial period. You call, you’re in for the long haul. Best sleep on it, yeah?”

John nodded; showing he understood. “Anything I owe you for the bail?”

“Consider it a gift. A... demonstration of my employer’s talents.” Sebastian turned to light his cigarette, “My number’s on the back. Let’s just say that I am quite familiar with, how did you phrase it? _Crime, geniuses with sociopathic tendencies, and bizarre experiments_ _._ In fact, it’s rather my specialty. Take the job or not, call me anytime.”

John looked at the card, white, stark and blank except for one phone number. He nodded, more to himself than to Moran, “Yeah, okay. I might give it a ring.”

“You best be serious about it, mate, when you do. But I promise, you won’t be bored.”

-o-

John was home for an hour before Sherlock spoke a word.

“Mycroft paid your bail, yes?” Sherlock assumed, as he swooped about the kitchen, adding this chemical and that.

“No, not quite,” John smirked, glad to see Sherlock was wrong every so often.

“I do hope you are proud of yourself,” Sherlock scoffed, “Your _antics_ got us thrown off the case.”

John turned on his heel, “My _antics?_ My antics saved your fucking throat! I handed you a lead on a bloody silver platter, and not only do you fuck it all up, but I have to save your arse in the process?!”

John dropped his jacket over his chair, rage radiating from his compact form. “I’m starting to understand Mycroft more and more,” he snarled, going for the kill.

Sherlock teeth snapped shut with a clatter, and flopped onto the sofa, facing the wall.

John sighed. Sherlock wouldn’t speak for hours, he was quite sure. And frankly, he was all the happier for it. Posh twat fucking up a simple interview. His hand snaked into his pocket, where he felt the business card. He was already on the wrong side of the law half the time with Sherlock anyways. Did it really matter exactly how far over the line he strayed?

He jogged up the stairs and laid on his bed. He stared up at the ceiling and fingered the card still in his pocket. He could tell, oddly enough, that this wasn’t something that he would have considered in The Past. The Past; it’s what he always called it, his pre-ABY days.

But right now, he barely understood why. Yes, it was “wrong” in some sense, but how was fixing up criminals any better or worse morally than murdering a man? He’d done that often, most recently killing the blasted cabbie because his thrill seeking flatmate was just as much an adrenaline junkie as he was. He fell into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning, images of Hope, Terrance, and a handful of unknown Afghanis with gun dropping to the ground. A half dozen men killed, all the in the name of some sort of righteousness.

John woke with a sudden start, and panicked response to reliving his own trauma. He bolted upright, heaving with breath, in a drenched sweat. He stripped off his damp clothing, and tossed on a jumper and jeans. He looked down at his slacks on the floor, dirty with last night’s grime. John bent down, and pulled the card out of his pocket. He glanced at the single phone number printed in clean black font on the front, and flipped the card over, to see the handwritten blue ink scrawled on the back. Moran’s number. John deliberated a moment or two more, then picked up his phone.

“Moran.” A gruff voice answered.

“It’s Watson. I’m- I just need to fucking talk. Care to meet for a pint?”

“Meet me at the last pub you took Holmes to,” Moran ordered, then hung up.

John frowned; he didn’t like that Moran, or his employer anyways, had been tracking him for so long. It’d been months since he’d taken Sherlock with him to a pub. But as his dismay turned into concern, and his heart started pumping teasing him to an edge. He grew antsy, and nearly jumped down the stairs in his eagerness to get out of Baker street. He passed Sherlock, still half comatose on the sofa, grabbed his jacket, and made his way to the pub.


	6. Idle Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, RL is kicking my ass. Over the last several months, I've had a few surgeries (including a cancer scare, that was fucking _lovely_ , the holidays, a load of family issues, and a metric fuckton of work. 
> 
> I promise, I'll not give up on this fic! But I cannot guarantee regular updates, not quite yet.

John arrived at the pub, seeing that Moran had already arrived, ordered drinks, and brought a friend. John furrowed his brow. He wanted to talk about Moran’s offer; how was he supposed to do that if there were... well,  _ witnesses _ ? He made his way to the bar to order, keeping an eye on the booth in the corner. The man sitting across from him was smaller than Moran, but that wasn’t saying much; Moran was taller than Sherlock with easily five stone more lean muscle. John guessed the stranger, in contrast, wasn’t much taller than himself. The man was attractive, and seemed to be carrying on a conversation with Moran with his facial expressions alone. When the barkeep returned with his drink, he offered up his debit card to start a tab. He walked to the booth Moran was saving, and nodded.

“Watson,” Moran gruffed.

“Moran. Ta for coming out,” John slid into the booth next to the stranger, and nodded in his direction as well, not sure if he should introduce himself to the interloper.

The man smiled back and John saw the instant the smile when from genuine to forced, and the man spoke, “Apparently Sebby here doesn’t see fit to introduce his guests.”

He looked back at John, and John was relieved to see the genuine smile had returned. “I work with Seb. Call me Jim.”

John gave him a quick once over; showing his interest if the man noticed, or nothing more than glance if he didn’t, and stuck out his hand, crossing his chest, “John Watson.”

“Of course, I know all about you. You blog about that detective, Sherlock Holmes. Seb told me you were meeting and I had to come say hello.” Jim placed his hand on John’s arm, letting it drift down to John’s wrist before breaking contact.

“For Christ’s sake, Jim, are you serious?” Moran groaned, and Jim shot him a look. Moran put his palms up in symbolic retreat, then chugged the rest of his pint, signalling for another.

Jim turned back to John, “Seb tells me he’s hoping to recruit you. Says you’re a doctor.” Jim traced the back of John’s hand resting on the table, “Good with your hands.”

John tossed out his best flirtatious grin; a lay would do some serious good in getting the tension of the day off his back, “I’m not sure he knows just  _ how _ good.”

Moran coughed, sputtering beer back into his drink, “Watson, excuse us a mo?” It was more an order than a request.

John looked to Jim, sensing that Jim’s opinion mattered; that there was some level of authority Jim had in this little side venture of Moran’s employer. Jim nodded, the affable grin melting into something much more predatory.

“I’ll just be off to the loos then?” John muttered as he stood up, taking himself to toilets.

He took care of himself, then loitered a good long time, until one patron began to give him funny looks, then made his way back to the table. Moran looked pissed, Jim clearly the victor of their discussion. John slid back in next to him.

Jim spoke up, pouting, “Seb’s worried that I’ll influence your decision. He thinks if I fuck you tonight, you’ll not want to work for me.”

John nodded, suddenly understanding, “You’re Seb’s boss.” The vibe he’d gotten earlier made sense now.

“That I am.”

“Well, Jim-“ John started, then reconsidered, “Should I be calling you something else? More formal?”

“John, if my night goes the way I’ve planned, I’ll be buggering you senseless at least three times over various pieces of furniture. Jim will be just fine.”

John felt the sharp pang of arousal through his body, and blushed.

Jim leaned in to his ear and spoke in a low, hot whisper, “You liked that, didn’t you Johnny? Liked thinking about how I’ll open you up? Press you over the back of the sofa ‘til your toes don’t touch the ground, then hold onto your hips and fuck you raw?”

John closed his eyes, imagining each word, every picture Jim was laying out for him. His cock was hard and uncomfortable against his slacks.

Jim reached down to help him adjust, “What say you, Dr. Watson? When’s the last time you had a good, thorough, mind altering, can’t-sit-right-for-days fuck?”

John searched his mind for anything, for even just one reason not to let Jim take him home and have his deliciously brutal way with him. He wanted. But he had to be sure.

“I won’t be kept,” John kept a sternness in his voice that he didn’t actually feel. “I am a doctor. I was a soldier. All I’m looking for is something more steady to do than handouts from the Yard.”

Jim smiled, all teeth, and answered with an enthusiastic, “Yes,  _ Captain _ .” He leaned back into John’s space, hand still on John’s cock, breath warm in his ear, “I’ll keep you so  _ very _ busy. I’ve been looking for a man like you for a  _ long _ time.”

John turned, spreading his legs wider for Jim’s access, and looked him up and down once more. He imagined Jim did quite a bit of lying, but he could read nothing but honesty on his face. If nothing else, John could definitely overpower the man; they might have been the same height, but he had at least two stone more muscle on him.

John smiled predatorily, “Yeah, it sounds good.  _ All of it _ .”

Jim beamed, looking thrilled, stroking John a few times before retreating, then finishing his own drink. “Go close out your tab, Johnny, I’m taking you home.”

John tossed back the rest of his pint, and headed up the bar. The barkeep was serving a customer at the other end, and John waited, tapping his fingers impatiently against the wood. Moran sidled up behind him, putting his empty glass onto the bar.

“Watson.”

“Yeah?”

“Jim.”

“What about him?”

“You know what I said about this job, you give it all or you don’t sign up?”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

“Jim’s not like that. He’ll take 200 fucking percent and it won’t be enough. He’ll kill you. It may be something you do, something someone else does, or maybe he’ll just be in a fuckin’ mood.”

“Trying to warn me off?”

“Wouldn’t matter. He’s got his hooks in you now. But I’d be prepared is all.”

John looked at Moran, seeing the severity of his look, “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thanks, mate.”

He looked back to the table where Jim sat, watching them with dark eyes.

“Is he going to approve of you telling me all this?,” John asked.

“Don’t matter. He’ll do what he does.”

“Fair enough.”

John finally paid his bill, tipped the barkeep, and headed back to where Jim sat. “So, are you a man of your word?” he smirked.

-o-

Jim touched, fondled and caressed him the entire ride back to his flat. John was hard, aching and desperate, but Jim refused to let him reciprocate. Instead, his hands were balled into fists on his thighs, as Jim sucked dark bruises onto his neck, letting his fingers dance down the hardened length of John’s cock.

“Fuck, Jim, you are bloody cruel,” John eked out between clenched teeth.

“You have no idea,” Jim purred into his ear, then retreated all at once. “Ah! We’re here!”

John groaned, but let Jim lead him to the lift. He cornered him, forcing John’s hands onto the guard rails, as he went to his knees.

“Christ,” John growled, but didn’t move.

Jim ran his palm up John’s length through his jeans, “Remarkable, Dr. Watson. Who knew you had such hidden... talents?”

John grinned at that one, he knew his cock was impressive; between medicine and military he had ample comparison. But he gasped as Jim took his zipper in his mouth, dragging it down as he stared up at John.

John made to move his hand, to run it through Jim’s hair, but Jim’s hand lashed out, pinning it back down to the railing.

“Oh, no, no, Johnny-boy, this is my show,” he warned softly, and John heard the venom in his voice for the first time.

His cock twitched at the adrenaline that rushed through him as a result, and Jim chuckled. “Yes, a man just. Like. You,” he muttered more to himself than anything. He nuzzled into John’s cock, mouthing at it through the fabric, and John rolled his hips involuntarily.

The lift chimed, and the doors open to a sprawling penthouse. Jim jumped up, and walked into the room with command and poise, and John could see easily how he’d risen to power. Gooseflesh raised on his skin as Jim turned on him with bright eyes and a vicious smile once the lift doors closed.

Jim swayed over to John, his demeanour taking a deadly turn. John felt his heart race and there was no hiding his arousal. Jim slid his hands under John’s shirt, tugging it upwards, “I want you naked, John. Naked. And ready. And wanting.” Jim nipped at his neck between words, and John growled shamelessly.

Jim stripped the shirt off him, and shimmied his trousers and boxers down. John stepped out of his shoes, and fell into parade rest as Jim circled him, examining him. John felt like prey, and he rather liked the challenge of it. He began to doubt he could overpower Jim; not that he didn’t have strength and training on his side, but it was clear that Jim had brilliance and wit. It was every thrill he’d had chasing criminals around London, but instead of ending with a frustrated wank in a shower, John had the promise of proper sex.

“Need a demonstration?” John asked cockily.

“Oh, Johnny, I think we’re past that,” Jim chuckled dangerously, and walked over to the bar, where he poured out two fingers of Irish whiskey a piece. He beckoned John to come over, and offered him a glass. “Sláinte,” he offered.

John nodded and took a sip, savouring the taste of the expensive liquor. Jim watched him, the pretence in his eyes obvious. John took another sip, and Jim smiled.

“You don’t have to be chaste with it, I’ve got plenty. Best whiskey money can buy, and it’s bottomless,” Jim offered, a hollowness to his voice.

John could tell that they wouldn’t be going any farther in this game of Jim’s until he’d finished his drink, so he swallowed it with a gulp, and set the empty glass down the bar.

Jim raised an eyebrow, but otherwise tilted his head to the sofa, “Be good for Daddy and lay down.”

John looked sceptically at Jim, he’d be damned if he was gonna call Jim ‘Daddy’ but he still obeyed, laying on his back on the plush sofa, legs spread comfortably apart; the sofa was nearly the width of his childhood bed.

Jim hovered over him, drink in hand, “Bet he doesn’t even know what he’s missing, does he?”

“Sorry, who?” John asked.

“Sherlock. He’s with you in that flat, day in and day out, and he’s never laid a hand on you,” Jim spoke with awe, but John heard an undercurrent of disgust.

“And that makes you mad?”

“He claims to be a genius, can analyze fucking  _ tobacco ash _ all damned day long,” Jim complained with emphasised irritation, “but here you are, a delight, a wonder, a Rube Goldberg in a jumper – I see the cause, I can see the effect, but it’s what’s in between that’s just so fascinating. And the Virgin and the Iceman, too blind to see it. Idiots, the both of them. So boring. So desperate to analyze art they can’t see the beauty in it.”

Despite Sherlock’s thoughtless name calling, John was clever, more often than not the most clever man in the room if his flat mate weren’t there. Already his mind was slotting into place everything Jim was saying. The familiarity with which he talked of Sherlock, his knowledge of John’s work and whereabouts, and he’d bet a thousand quid that the ‘Iceman’ was Mycroft; there was only one conclusion he could draw. 

He looked up at Jim, and gave him a knowing smile, but kept his revelation to himself. 

Jim smiled back, full of teeth and a rage brimming at his eyes, “Figured it all out have you?” Jim knelt, and slowly poured whiskey from his glass, from John’s navel to the notch at his jugular, letting the whiskey pool in the small hollows at both ends. John’s breathing hitched, but he didn’t say a word as he held himself as still as he could. Jim dipped down, slurping up the pool of liquor at John’s belly button, then lapping the drizzle over his chest, and the droplets that had begun to sneak down his sides. John felt the room grow hotter, and though he could keep the rest of himself from moving, his cock disobeyed, filling out completely, eager and waiting. 

As Jim neared his neck, he spoke lowly between broad strokes of his tongue across John’s chest, “The question is, what are you going to do about it?” Before waiting for John to answer, he sucked the puddle of whiskey from the dip in his neck, then sucked a bit harder as John, now free of whiskey, began to writhe underneath him, hips rolling and fingers clawing into the cushions.

“So what will it be,  _ Captain _ ?” Jim  asked, with a mocking sing-song, lifting his head to look John in the eyes. 

And so John was confident he saw the truth in his eyes as he answered, “I’m planning to see if you’re a man of your word.” Quickly he lifted his head, pressing his lips to Jim’s, then threaded his hand through Jim’s short dark hair, deepening the kiss slightly before Jim pulled back with a snarl. John put on his most seductive look. 

“-to see if  _ Moriarty  _ is a man of his word.”


End file.
